


swell, like the sea

by inqui (The_Circus)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Playful Sex, Sherlock's head, Teasing, a fine way to get back on the horse this is, a hint of D/s, some nipple play, they're both saps really, what time is this? no clue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-09
Updated: 2016-01-09
Packaged: 2018-05-12 19:25:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5677798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Circus/pseuds/inqui
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You’re a daft one,” says John, sitting up and pulling Sherlock towards him for a kiss, the smiling sort, Sherlock can tell. Sherlock resists, pulls up haughtily, barely able to keep the smile off his face as he tries to present a faux-insulted back.</i>
</p><p> <i>He fails. John grabs him bodily and manhandles him easily so that Sherlock is flopped back against John’s front. “Me, John, daft?” he manages to say before they are both lost to the giggles and Sherlock never thought he could have this.</i></p><p>A moment with two men of note.</p>
            </blockquote>





	swell, like the sea

**Author's Note:**

> This came from a twitter conversation, as these things so often do. Trust the first work that I finish and publish in over two years to be porn. But it's lovely porn, so what can you do? With thanks to withoutawish for the quick beta and look over.

“Nope,” grins John.

“John,” Sherlock repeats, fingers struggling to latch on to John’s short hair, to the pillows. He’s practically burning already and John has barely touched him.

“Please,” keens Sherlock, all akimbo, spread out on the sheets like a Bernini statue come to life.  John’s face is tucked into his neck. He’s just inhaling, deep breaths that stroke his stubborn nose up and down Sherlock’s neck as his left hand sweeps sensation into Sherlock’s floating ribs. John doesn’t even have his trousers off and here’s Sherlock all unwrapped and nude for him. “God damn you John, p....”

A sharp nip to where the _sternocleidomastoid_ lies under the skin of his neck cuts off whatever was about to tumble out of Sherlock’s mouth. It’s unfair, really, very unfair that John is so _good_ at this, at bringing Sherlock back into the messy place called his body and making it sing. John is kneeling over him, and steadily applying pressure to the sharp nip, ensuring that Sherlock will have to wear a scarf, or maybe re-arrange his collar. If, of course, Sherlock wasn’t so fucking proud to Have John and so happily willing to display it. Discreetly, of course. (He’ll have to make up an excuse to flaunt it in front of Mycroft. The tense wince his brother makes is worth whatever tedious errand that results.)

Having John. All five foot nearly seven of him, delighted and luminous and right, yes, kissing, kissing is, it’s good, it’s....

So distracting, having John hovering over him like that. He’s holding himself up on his elbows and toes, his body taut and strong. Only their mouths are touching, well, mouths and tongues and Sherlock’s hands which have decided, of their own accord, to drift over John’s back down to his arse.

“Nope,” John says again against Sherlock’s lips, adjusting himself so he can grab the drifting hand and trap it above Sherlock’s head by intertwining their fingers and pushing down into the pillows. “My rules, you agreed.”

He did, Sherlock did. Sherlock nods furiously to show that he remembers. How did his hand get down to John’s (very fine) arse, anyway? He has no idea. He tells John this as primly as he can. As primly as one can with one’s hand trapped and the other clinging to John’s neck and his hips pushing up towards John’s.

He agreed (under willing duress). John had been quiet all day, working on something (“your bloody paperwork mess, I don’t know why I’m sorting it.” “You love me.” “Yes.”) and Sherlock had been bored and antsy, pacing and unable to settle but not at all inclined to get out of his pyjamas or to leave the flat. Finally, _finally_ , John had put down the pen and come up behind Sherlock and twisted a hand into his hair, pulling just the right amount and Sherlock could have slid to his knees on the floor then and there if it wasn’t for John’s arm firm around his waist and his forehead pressing between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. "Do you need something, Sherlock?” he had asked. “A good fucking, perhaps?” Sherlock could not agree fast enough.

John’s mood is obvious. He’s predatory, all conservative movement and bright, sharp eyes. He knows what he wants (Sherlock) and is determined to get it. It’s a combination of all the competence he has in his other skills bound up with a hefty dose of willing Sherlock and gladness and sureness and sex. (Is it inappropriate that Sherlock, of all people, gets a hot sucker punch to the gut every time that John straightens his shoulders just so and widens his stance in preparation for a fight, or when he gently tends to injuries or starts barking out orders medical or practical? Sherlock had been half sloshed once, at a thing, was it a thing? it was a thing with several of John’s old mates, all army, {from a surprisingly eclectic set of  backgrounds} and Sherlock had been just uninhibited enough to ask Bill Murray if John was as devastatingly wild and, god, Sherlock doesn’t even have a word for it, him, wild and wantable in the field as Sherlock imagined. A week later a packet of a dozen or so photographs had come through the post accompanied by a heavily innuendo laden note and Sherlock _treasures_ them. _Treasures._ )

Something pulls him back out of the (decidedly delicious) memories. John is holding Sherlock’s hand to his mouth and laving at the fore and middle fingers, practically fellating them. It’s indecent. Sherlock can feel John’s tongue lapping at the web of skin between them and tracing the fingerprints on the tips.

“Back?” John asks. He’s on his side; head propped up on a hand and curled like a comma towards Sherlock. He’s looking up through (golden) eyelashes, mischievous and flinty.

Sherlock pounces.

“Get. these. off.” Sherlock addresses this to John’s belt buckle and John laughs. Laughs as Sherlock drags the drab trousers and pants off and triumphantly tosses them toward the frosted glass bathroom door. They land somewhere. Sherlock could not care less where, not now when John is naked and Sherlock can see the line where torso becomes groin becomes thigh. He needs to lick it. He does. John, as far as Sherlock is concerned, is a compact package of bodily perfection.

“You’re a daft one,” says John, sitting up and pulling Sherlock towards him for a kiss, the smiling sort, Sherlock can tell. Sherlock resists, pulls up haughtily, barely able to keep the smile off his face as he tries to present a faux-insulted back.

He fails. John grabs him bodily and manhandles him easily so that Sherlock is flopped back against John’s front. “Me, John, daft?” he manages to say before they are both lost to the giggles and Sherlock never thought he could have this. Laughter. He never expected laughter and the bubbling joy he gets from joshing with John like this. He had no idea this was acceptable, laughing during sex, making fun of John during sex.

They go quiet for a breath or two. For a second, that’s all there is, his heartbeat (107, roughly) and John’s (136; he’s smaller) bounding against his back.

John tucks his face over Sherlock’s shoulder, draws him into an artless kiss with a hand in his hair. It’s the wrong position for kissing, Sherlock splayed back against John like this but they make it work. It’s a vulnerability being like this, open and unguarded, but Sherlock does not care right now because it’s a thrill that makes everything more, makes it better. John uses his hands firmly, stroking them up and down Sherlock's torso. Firmly, because he knows just how sensitive Sherlock is; a light touch is frustrating and ticklish- the last thing he wants to feel right now. It feels like spring tide shore waves, deep and relentless. Sherlock pushes back into the hands, gasps into John’s neck as he gets washed away. He feels like a sandstone pillar being steadily eroded. John smells of sex, and light sweat, and himself.

One of Sherlock’s hands is untwisted from its tight grip in the sheets. John slots their fingers together again before using the digit bundle to draw Sherlock’s neck right back so he’s arched. With one of John’s leg’s trapping one of Sherlock’s he’s completely exposed. It should feel ridiculous. Sherlock is all limbs and much taller than John. He should be swamping John. Instead he’s pinned open and it sets Sherlock aflame.

John has hardly touched him. Something needs to be done about that. Sherlock manages to get his other hand around his prick, gets in one stroke that sends heat deep into his gut before John has that hand pinned too. John is apparently made of all hands, because the other one, another one, is circling around one of Sherlock’s pectorals, spiralling in and out. Just the smallest of brushes over Sherlock’s nipple before stroking out again. It’s making sparks dance along his skin in the resultant trail.

“Do I have to tie your hands?” John asks evenly. He sounds like he couldn’t care either way if he has to. Sherlock know differently. John’s cock is pressed up against his back, hard and hot.

“No.” Sherlock deliberately clings to John’s thigh instead.

“Good. Stay still and behave then.” John goes back to brushing his thumb over the same nipple. Sherlock squirms, but John holds him firm. Small little electric charges are dancing down to his prick, making Sherlock restless. He wants to thrust against something but there’s nothing but air because John still hasn’t touched his prick once. Sherlock has closed his eyes somewhere along the way and the sensations being worked into his skin are mirrored by colours behind the closed lids. His head is flopped into the sharp smell of John’s neck. John is a hot steady body behind him. “You are beautiful like this,” John says as Sherlock groans. The heat building up on that side of his chest is almost unbearable. Sherlock is practically writhing, as much as he can, all panting breath and half caught noises. John swaps sides, and starts the spiral pattern again. “You really are. All lax and caught up.”

“You’re killing me, John. Killing,” moans Sherlock. He cuts off on a sharp inhale as John rolls his nipple between two fingers.

Finally, _finally_ , John tugs on his curls for the last time and wraps his hand around Sherlock’s prick.  It’s slick with lube (silicone based, bottle was on the bedside table, half full after two nights ago) which John has acquired at some point while Sherlock has been hopelessly distracted.  The rumble that comes out of Sherlock’s mouth is practically sub-sonic. John swallows it. “It’s called _le petite mort_ for a reason.”

“Your accent is awful,” Sherlock pants. John sharply pinches Sherlock’s nipple in retaliation.

“Do you really want to be sassing me right now?”

Sherlock shakes his head. Noises, awful undignified whines are more constant than his breath. John is still cursedly steady.

“What’s that, Sherlock?”

“No, John.”

John’s fingers tap at his lips. “Nice and wet now, do a good job.”

It’s a welcome distraction to suck on John’s fingers as John pulls at Sherlock’s prick. John starts up a rhythm that feels like small breakers along the shore again, a swell and retreat in time with Sherlock’s mouth on his fingers. Sherlock chases after John’s fingers as he takes them out but forgets as John swipes them slick around the areola, over the bud.

“God, John...” Heat builds up in his groin. Sherlock is going to come spread out like this. He is. There’s John at his back, the pleasure of a competent hand on his prick and slick sensation from John’s fingers on his nipples. The pressure builds.

John bites the bruise on Sherlock’s neck, pinches one hand and twists the other. Sherlock’s cry is quiet and deep, just the vowel of John’s name caught up in his throat. He’s lost in the release, and the buzz.

Sherlock smiles into John’s shoulder. He’s warm and relaxed. He loves John. Loves him so much. Loves that John can do this to him. Loves that John knows when he needs this, and knows when he doesn’t. “You promised to fuck me,” Sherlock pouts, just a bit, as he slithers down until he’s curled between John’s legs. He noses at John’s cock. It’s hard and leaking just a bit, a lovely ruddy colour. Sherlock tastes it and relishes John’s hiss.

Sherlock feels inordinately fond of John right now. That would be the oxytocin.

“Did you want me to?” John is the big spoon behind Sherlock now, arm wrapped round and holding him tight and secure. Sherlock can feel how hard John is against his back.

“You said you would.” It would be nice, Sherlock supposes, even though he’s all soft and over-sensitive now. “What are you doing?”

“Fucking you,” John replies, leaning over Sherlock and grabbing the lube once more, pouring the slick onto his hand. He insinuates it between Sherlock’s thighs, spreading the slippery liquid around. Sherlock shuffles up obligingly so his head is on the askew pillows, putting himself in the right position for John, who has been so generous.

John’s cock is hot and hard between Sherlock’s thighs. He holds them tight so that John has something to thrust into. It’s a lovely sensation, a soft memory of the enthusiastic sodomy of a couple of nights ago. It doesn’t take long, just a minute or so before John lets himself go. Sherlock pulls John around for a kiss, awkward though it is, more a messy tangle of tongues and harsh breaths. He comes quietly, slick between Sherlock’s legs. They still, forehead to forehead.

It’s an intimacy that hurts even after all this time. A deep ache in Sherlock’s core, tucked under his sternum. It’s a great privilege, he has found, to be hurt so by John Watson.

Their breath calms.

“I’ve made a right mess of you,” John says, looking over Sherlock. He gets up, looking softer than he usually does. John collects tension and stress like other people collect bottle caps or stamps or ugly dolls. He carries it in the lines on his forehead and the set of his shoulders. Both have leeched away, a bit. Sherlock likes that he can do that for John. John does so much, but Sherlock can give him this.

A damp flannel lands on his stomach. Sherlock uses it to perfunctorily clean himself up of their combined mess before tossing it back towards the bathroom. He feels warm and sleepy and content, a happy combination that rarely comes around together. John gets back the bed and they burrow down under the covers.

“Better?” John asks, mindlessly stroking along Sherlock’s hairline on his forehead.

“Mmmm,” Sherlock replies. It’s the last thing said for the night.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr, should you wish, as thecircusofme for ordinary things, and allinthemind for meta.


End file.
